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There hadn’t been any urgency in Felicity’s voice or in the message itself—or had she missed it? She’d need to listen to it again. All Amanda remembered was she had said, “in person might be best.” But people said that even when a phone call would suffice. “Of course, you wouldn’t say it was murder if… I’m just shocked is all,” she eventually said, filling the elongated silence. “Where are you? Where is she?”
“No need to concern yourself with that. Ryan and I have this handled, but we will need to question you.”
Natalie Ryan was another detective with the unit and Fred’s partner.
“Question me?” Like I’m a suspect? She and Fred had never exactly been buddies and his attitude shouldn’t surprise her, given their past encounters. “Tell me where you are. I’m heading over.”
Another loud, exaggerated sigh. Then Fred told her he was at Felicity Kelley’s house. He didn’t need to provide the address. It was one Amanda remembered from her first meeting with Felicity. She and her partner, Trent Stenson, had gone there to notify Felicity her only sister had been murdered. And now, flash forward a year and a half, someone had taken Felicity’s life. Was the family cursed?
“When you get here, Steele, I hope you have a good explanation for why you were one of the last people she called.” He hung up, and she was left holding the empty line.
She wanted that explanation more than anyone.
TWO
Amanda stood on the sidewalk, looking up at the two-story, white-sided house. A rather ordinary home, in an ordinary neighborhood in Triangle. It was a small community, which was part of Prince William County, and located five minutes from Dumfries—where Amanda lived—and fifteen from Woodbridge, where the PWCPD Homicide Unit was stationed.
Uniformed officers had the area cordoned off, and an unmarked department car, likely the one that Fred had signed out, sat at the curb. There was no sign of Crime Scene or the medical examiner’s vehicle yet, though they came from Manassas, thirty minutes northwest of Triangle. The scene felt fresh, and it was likely Felicity was discovered rather recently.
Detective Natalie Ryan was with a man and woman, both in their late twenties, early thirties. He had his arm around her, and she was pawing at her cheeks, visibly distressed from this distance. Probably wiping away tears. Amanda suspected she had found Felicity.
An officer stood by the front door of the house, watching her closely.
Amanda was finding it hard to move, her legs frozen in place while her conscience ate away at her. Ever since Fred had answered Felicity’s phone, guilt had stepped in, plaguing her with if onlys on a never-ending loop. If only I had called her back sooner, would she still be alive? If only I had answered when she called? If only… Two words, their implication brutally painful.
After hanging up from Fred, Amanda made two calls—one to Trent Stenson, the other to their sergeant, Scott Malone. He was also a family friend and had known Amanda from the time she’d entered the world. She’d told him she was back from Florida, and he’d asked about her trip and told her to enjoy the next few days off. Her counter was to request an early return to the job. Her conscience told her she owed Felicity Kelley this much. And just as she had found justice for her sister, Amanda was determined to do the same for Felicity.
Malone agreed to her going to the scene and roping Trent in “for the time being.” His words. They didn’t bring much hope that he’d reassign this case, but once face to face with him, she was certain she could make him see how important it was that she be the one to investigate Felicity’s murder.
“You don’t need to do this, you know.” Trent walked around the nose of the department car he’d driven them here in, having met Amanda at Central. “You still have a few vacation days left. I say let Hudson and Ryan continue to run with this.”
She shook her head. “We covered this already. I just can’t do that. And how could you? We knew her, Trent.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“You also know how Hudson and Ryan can steamroll their investigations.” She didn’t need to spell it out in detail. A year ago, they’d witnessed the duo’s shoddy detective work when they investigated the murder of Logan’s estranged wife. One could blame the management at the time, an interim sergeant named Katherine Graves, who had exerted her authority and pressured for a quick resolution to look good to the police chief. But Amanda couldn’t forgive Hudson and Ryan for playing along and jeopardizing justice.
“Well, no time like the present, I suppose.” Trent gestured toward the house, but she picked up on his reluctance. He wasn’t looking forward to the inevitable confrontation with Fred any more than she was.
They didn’t need to wait long. Fred stepped onto the porch—hands on hips, lips pressed in an unquestionable scowl, eyes squinting in the afternoon sun. “Stenson? I didn’t expect you. Don’t you have other work to do?”
Amanda squared her shoulders and took a step toward Fred. “I called Detective Stenson.” She’d hold back that she’d cleared their presence with Malone.
“I can’t have everyone tramping around my crime scene.”
“Don’t consider us everyone.” She bit back saying, Consider us the new leads on the case. She was confident it was only a matter of time. She put booties over her shoes, and Trent did the same.
“Fine. Just don’t touch anything.” Fred retreated into the house without bothering to pass the door off to Amanda. The spring on the frame was tight, and it closed in her face.
She took a deep, centering breath and got the door for herself and Trent.
The place was muggy with a touch of cool—the central air conditioning likely working overtime to offset the front door’s frequent use. The layout was open concept from the entry. Straight ahead was a hallway that Amanda assumed led to the kitchen. Beyond that, she didn’t know.
A walnut staircase was on the right. Its newel post, caps, and balusters were original to the home, but the steps had been carpeted at some point over the years.
The living room was on the left, and most of it was visible from the front door.
Modestly decorated. Tidy. No artwork adorned the walls. Chairs bookended the main window through which sunlight was pouring in and drenching the wood floor. Felicity had sat in the chair on the left when they’d informed her of her sister’s death.
